Echoes of Love
by On The Moon At Last
Summary: On the dystopian Earth-22, "inefficient" behaviors are regulated by neural inhibitors. Love is considered dangerous and choice is obsolete. Careers and families are arranged prior to birth, and governments have been replaced by companies known as Projects. What happens when Laurel Lance and Helena Bertinelli, children of the the American Project's leaders, fall in love?
1. Prologue

The Earth designated "22" by STAR Labs on Earth-1 was an intriguing place. That was not a compliment. The universe could best be described as dystopian at best and ruthlessly nihilistic at its absolute worst. Emotions were kept in check by inhibitors attached to the amygdalae at birth. Efficiency was expected, and deviation from one's assigned caste was punishable by neural reprogramming, which was really just a euphemism for brainwashing. Emotions caused wars and pain and suffering, so they had to be experienced in moderation. Like alcohol or recreational drugs, emotions were considered forbidden fruits only to be experienced responsibly and in brief amounts before being bottled up again. Love was not a socially acceptable concept, it was not something encouraged to be found but stamped out and overcome like the flu; it hadn't been for decades. Marriages were arranged once the sex of two fetuses were determined, and only if the parents who begot the children had something to gain through the eventual marriage alliance and bloodline continuation.

Governments had long since imploded in the wake of infighting and were replaced by powerful corporations called Projects. The American Project's influence gradually expanded until the continents of North and South America were unified under the flag of the totalitarian state. The Lance and Bertinelli families had been the heads of the American Project since its inception. The Bertinelli's daughter, Helena, was betrothed to the wealthy Oswald Cobblepot, while the Lance's eldest daughter Laurel was intended for one Oliver Jonas Queen.

This is, in brief, the world in which these two women live. Dark and controlled, as though all of humanity are lab rats to be tested and any variation is punished. _**In a world all about control and efficiency, what happens when one is in love for the first time? When they experience true emotion, not something preprogrammed for them to feel as though they were simple wind-up toys or robots?**_ These were the inquiries floating around in Dinah Laurel Lance's head as she woke up in bed next to Helena Bertinelli on the morning of February 12th, 2017. This couldn't be right, could it? Two women could not produce an heir, but such a union would benefit their parents. Right? There was at least some positives to it. Helena had other ideas.

"What good would it do our families for us to be together in more than a friendly fashion?" The question was unnervingly flat in its delivery, as though she were a GPS device giving someone directions as opposed to a person with motivations and anxieties. One's heart was irrelevant, they had both been taught, and feelings were the most dangerous things in existence, but oh how Helena's heart sang whenever she was in the presence of Laurel. Not that she understood what she felt, it was nevertheless important to her to continue feeling it. Even the inhibitors couldn't prevent such a feeling.

"What even is this, Laurel?"

"This is us," came a slightly less monotone reply.

"It is not the way."

"Perhaps the way is obsolete."

"You sound like one of those terrorists on the news. What's the name of the leader of that particularly bothersome organization Pathos? Damien Darhk, correct?"

"How is a terrorist relevant to this conversation? In fact, how is this conversation relevant in the first place when you have informed me that you have been able to access emotional responses? That said emotional responses are instigated in my presence?"

"Are you implying our inhibitors are malfunctioning?"

"I imply nothing, I am simply aiding you in identifying the crux of your discomfort, Helena."

"Perhaps last night's sexual encounter is the crux of my discomfort. Perhaps we should speak no more of it."

"But? I sense a certain reticence in your voice."

"Perhaps I also enjoyed the encounter and wish to repeat it."

"Perhaps I do as well."

With that, Helena leaned in and kissed Laurel.

"Perhaps the inhibitors are the true problem," Laurel suggested after breaking their kiss. "Perhaps we are indeed meant to experience all that our ancestors did."

Helena thought long and hard about Laurel's argument. "Perhaps this is just as valid as the marriages laid out for us since before birth," the brunette replied. "Perhaps attraction is what makes a good marriage?"

"It would be wise for us to contain such conversation for the privacy of this bed," Laurel sighed as she finally turned over to look at Helena. Her head propped up by her arm; she gazed into the Bertinelli woman's eyes, as did Helena with Laurel. Oceans of brown and green met for a long beat before Helena smiled. A genuine smile, one born of happiness and not societal expectation.  
"Yes. We shall do this again. And regularly," Helena kissed Laurel and departed. The blonde watched her leave.

"Perhaps we can be more than what is expected of us."


	2. Give Me Some More Of That Iodine

Chapter 1: Give Me Some More Of That Iodine

Last night was, indeed, worth repeating. Laurel knew this. Helena agreed, in spite of (or because of?) her obvious reservations. They both had a job to fulfill, a purpose in their elitist society: women were to marry into a higher or equal station and produce heirs so as to further strengthen the bond between the parents' families. It was all business. The families Lance and Bertinelli were no exception to this rule. The children Laurel and Helena would eventually bear would not only solidify the American Project's leadership for at least the next two generations, but also ensure the Project's military remained properly funded. The Cobblepots supplied said funds, while the Queens supplied the soldiers.

Tonight's gala at Queen Consolidated was a celebration of five years of peace in the wake of the Seven Years' Civil War with the Canadian states. Nothing would interrupt tonight's event, not even the breakout of another world war. The majority of the guests, diplomats, reporters, and family friends for the most part, were enjoying themselves. Getting themselves drunk and enjoying each others' elitist company. Well, that is to say, as much as one can "enjoy" an evening with friends when one's emotional responses are practically eradicated by an inhibitor that has all but become a part of your nervous system.

I'll give you one guess as to the duo that were decidedly not enjoying themselves. You would be most correct if your answer was "Laurel and Helena". Your correctness would be legendary. The expression of disinterest on Helena's face was readable even to those who looked permanently disinterested on the surface. The inhibitors were a strange thing: one's emotional responses were stripped down to their most basic components and expressions of said emotions beyond a surface level was automatically punishable- publicly, when necessary. Actually, making an example of someone was **always** considered necessary. It was how Frank Bertinelli, Quentin Lance, and Malcolm Merlyn kept the populous of the American Project in check. Even a genuine belly laugh could be answered by either reconditioning at best or execution at worst. Emotions = bad, superficiality = good. Helena had heard whispers of iodine being used to neutralize the effects of the inhibitors, but such rumors were utilized by the World Projects as horror stories that led to insanity and/or war.

Drink in hand, Helena made her way over to the equally nonplussed Laurel.

"Oliver has been eying you all night."

"He has," Laurel tried to hide the slight quiver in her voice. "I do not want to."

"I know," Helena answered. "Oliver and Oswald are easily malleable. And what of Oliver's father?"

"General Queen and his wife are far too focused on exterminating Pathos to care about any of the multitudinous political goings-on here," Laurel mused.

"There has been a spike of Emocri since Pathos went public last year," a voice interjected. Turning, Helena and Laurel saw that the voice belonged to one Malcolm Merlyn, the War Secretary.

"Emocri" (pronounced Emoh-cree) was a common abbreviation of "Emotion Crime" on Earth-22. It was what happened when the inhibitors went offline or were otherwise destroyed. "Whenever the inhibitors are taken out of play," Malcolm reminded them, "the flood becomes too much. The subject goes wild."

 _He's repeated his own propaganda so often that he has come to believe it himself_ , Laurel thought.

"The first form of emotional suppression had been pills manufactured in 1973. Then the Dominators invaded in 1977 and the resultant human victory led to a rapid technological advancement." Like they needed to hear this history lesson for the billionth time. Nevertheless, he continued. "The inhibitors' immediate predecessor was first introduced into the population in 1989."

"And people died," Laurel finished. "We know. It was in response to having the patches forced on them. It was the logical result of fear."  
"It was the result of illogical disobedience," Malcolm countered. "That rebellion, as we all know, was stamped out quickly."

"And then Seven Years' Civil War broke out in July 2005," Laurel pushed.

"Another rebellion put down by myself and General Queen." He sneered at the blonde. "I would mind myself, Miss Lance and Miss Bertinelli, were I you. I may be so inclined to inform your fathers of your dalliances."

"You would be disbelieved," Helena glowered.

"Indeed," the government official ceded. "But it would be sufficient to cast doubt. You know the General's prejudice against Emoters." 'Emoters' being the government's slur pertaining those either in Pathos, specifically, and individuals who desired to be more than what society expected, at large. People like Laurel Lance. People like what Laurel wanted Helena to one day be. Members of Pathos like Damien Darhk, Carrie Cutter, Diana Prince, Bruce Wayne, Jaime Reyes, and Barbara Gordon were all on the American Project's terrorist watch list.

Sara had already been made an example of not six months prior for being caught with Nyssa Raatko. Both women had been shot in the head in the middle of Starling Square. As had Roy Harper and his family, Eddie Thawne, Barry Allen and his wife Iris, and Jimmy Olsen before them. Even Victor Stone. All for daring to express an emotional response to something going on in the world, or daring to find love or to speak up against the Chancellors Bertinelli and Lance.

With a final nod, Malcolm left the two lovebirds alone. Both women understood the villainous undercurrent of Malcolm's words. Swallowing her disgust, Laurel turned to the podium. The speaker of the evening was to be Quentin Lance. A large "Happy National Armistice Day" banner unfurled behind him.

"Good evening," Quentin began. "Tonight commemorates the fifth anniversary of-"

He never did finish that sentence. A red dot appeared in the center of his forehead for a brief moment and he crumpled to the ground. Blood splattered the wall behind him, blanketing the banner.

The inhibitors may dampen emotional responses, but the primal and instinctual reaction to a prominent leader being murdered is to scatter. Scramble. Make sure you weren't next. And that was exactly what the crowd did. People pushing and shoving, making their way toward the door. In that mass of flesh and panic, Helena made out the one newcomer: a woman in a black Port Authority Canvas Cap and body covered by a black leather coat slinking through the guests toward to the door. The Bertinelli daughter recognized the ensemble well. It had been on the news just last week.

A member of Pathos!

The brunette didn't care how, she was getting through that crowd.

"Move!" She commanded, but her voice was drowned out by the crowd. The unnoticed assassin made her way out and closed the door behind her. Helena swore under her breath, blocked by the human traffic. It was like fish swimming upstream in here.

Laurel, for her part, had crawled up to the podium and stared at her father's body. Just stared at it. She didn't scream, didn't cry. It was times like these that she was thankful for the neural inhibitor. She could just process this in a few days and move on. On Earth-1, families were close emotionally and their blood bonds ran deep. On Earth-22, families existed only to continue bloodlines and ensure power was retained. There was no such thing as love, not in the real world. Death was accepted as a natural part of life. But with this deterministic worldview came the comfort of an almost angst-free existence. No emotional connections meant no suffering, and that was a good thing wasn't it? A life unburdened by suffering?

Sighing, she got up and turned back to the room. Scanning the people throwing their full weight on the door, Laurel needed no further information to realize that whoever had killed her father had also locked the door behind them.

Then she noticed the duffle bag in the center of the room.

Shit.

"Bomb!" She called out. That only made the situation worse. The first pair of eyes she met was Malcolm's. She nodded almost imperceptibly. He nodded back and shot out the nearest window. Laurel, Helena, and Malcolm made for the window and jumped.

The freefall lasted only a few seconds before the trio rolled onto the rooftop of the shorter business next to the tower.

 _ **KABOOM!**_

It was over. Windows blew out and dust rained down as they curled into fetal positions. Once it was over, Helena stood and looked up.

"They are all dead."

Well thanks Captain Obvious. A downside of the inhibitor.

By the time Laurel got up, Malcolm had already shot his way through the door on the rooftop and Helena was following him. Laurel tailed.

"Whoever this assassin is," Malcolm broke the silence as they made their way through the little spice shop, "will see justice rain down like hellfire upon them."

That was odd. Was Malcolm's inhibitor failing as well? Even if it was, he would vehemently deny it.

"Pathos did this," Helena confirmed.

"Of course they did. Did you get a good look at the assassin?"

"No."

Helena did see a lock of dark red hair. Must have been Cutter. She elected to keep such information to herself as her hand slipped into Laurel's. The act of physical affection did not go unnoticed by Malcolm, who broke a broom in half and jammed it through the door handles. "I would highly advise such behavior be confined to a more private setting," Malcolm warned before removing the piece of wood and stepping aside. Then:

"Or else I will be forced to inform Frank. And he was always the worse of your fathers."

Laurel and Helena glared at him, intertwined their hands, and left without another word.

X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X

Carrie Cutter had made her own way out of the towering structure. Killing the guards was easier than she anticipated and she sped down the road into the blackish-blue of the night, on her red motorcycle. Mission accomplished.

X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X

In the darkness of his room, Darhk curled up his sleeve and injected a black liquid into the muscle of his forearm. Sighing, he lay back and looked at the dead man on the floor in front of him.

"Bless the existence of iodine," he exhaled. Better to feel too much than nothing at all.

X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X

They had made it back to Helena's room following a long taxi ride. Thank the gods it was already past midnight so no one was awake to see the pair. Pressing herself against Helena, which in turn pressed the brunette against the door, Laurel kissed her companion deeply as Helena fumbled with the doorframe. It slammed shut behind them and they did not sleep until dawn.

X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X=X

"You're a screamer," Helena giggled when she awoke to Laurel's oceans of green twinkling in post-coital bliss. Her face wasn't slack this time. She was smiling!

Laurel didn't know what else to do so she kissed Helena again. That kiss could have gone on forever and neither would have minded. It would've, except for the nasty inconvenience of their door being broken down by a damn SWAT team.

"Fuck," Laurel breathed. Someone must have tipped them off.

"Malcolm." Helena voiced what they were both thinking.

The leader of this team hauled the naked women out of bed and haphazardly threw what could best be described as potato sacks their way (that description was generous; these rags didn't even look like clothes). It was the custom attire for those about to be executed. Publicly.

"What is the meaning of this?" Helena snarled.

"That," a man's voice came through the darkness. The suit soon arrived in front of them. "You know the laws about deviating from your assigned mates. As well as emotions."

Frank Bertinelli. He spat in his daughter's face. "A shame. I had such high hopes for you, for both of you."

He walked out. "Take them away."

And soon the lovers were hauled off to god-knows-where.

This was gonna suck.


End file.
